


When You Go Quiet

by stillahavsvinden



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Fix-It, Gibson's Real Name Is Philippe Hugo Guillet, Goodbyes, Language Barrier, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14820570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillahavsvinden/pseuds/stillahavsvinden
Summary: The face hovering above his is one that he recognises. Calming words fall off the man’s lips. Tommy catches one of them.“Cauchemar.”





	When You Go Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this mainly because I wanted to explore the language barrier and communication between Tommy and Gibson. Also there can never be to much fic about these guys.

 

“Your name, love?”

 

The nurse’s voice rings sharp over the hollow murmur of the convalescent home.

 

“Oh, er, Tommy.”

 

The nurse jots this down. “Is that all?”

 

Sheepish, Tommy gives her his surname.

 

“Here, get yourself some food. Thank you,” she instructs mechanically, handing Tommy a piece of paper before she turns to the man next in line.

 

“Your name, love?”

 

Tommy darts a glance behind. The man looks nervously from the nurse back to Tommy, eyes wide.

 

“Yes? I need your name, love,” the nurse repeats, slightly louder.

 

“It’s Philippe,” Tommy interjects.

 

The nurse looks up at him inquiringly.

 

“Philippe – Gibson,” Tommy says.

 

The nurse considers this piece of information for a second, then writes down the name, shrugging.

 

“Off you go, love,” she tells Gibson.

 

Gibson takes the slip of paper and turns to Tommy, tense once more.

 

“Come, let’s go,” Tommy mutters to the man, knowing full well that his words are futile, and puts a hand to Gibson’s shoulder.

 

Gibson follows, obligingly, knowing what’s best for him – knowing that Tommy wants the best for him.

 

As they move along in the crowded corridor, Tommy glimpses the slip of paper in Gibson’s hand. It reads: _Philip Gibson_.

 

* * *

 

Tommy insists on the nurses that they be given beds next to one another. He’s ready to launch onto a tirade of justifications and excuses, but the nurse merely shrugs her shoulders and gives them beds side-by-side. Probably thinks it’s easier that way. It has to be the first time Tommy has been difficult with anyone.

 

Their first night at the convalescent home is filled with shrieks, which are promptly smoothed over by the mechanically soothing voices of the nurses. Terrified creatures of the night.

 

The memories come in waves. Tommy sees Gibson’s eyes glimmering in the dark, staring at him from the next bed. There’s an understanding in the air; a connection – _we’ve been here before, and we’ve survived._

 

There’s no need for Gibson to extend his arm over to Tommy’s bed, but he could do it; he could.

 

* * *

 

The next day, a doctor comes round. He takes Tommy and Gibson into examination separately. Gibson goes in first, and when it’s Tommy’s turn, he can’t stop wondering about Gibson’s fate. He shivers from head to toe as the doctor has him strip and listens to his heartbeat with the stethoscope. The doctor gives him a prolonged frown, concluding that it must be the shock that has Tommy quivering so. His statement is clear: _not yet fit enough to return to active duty._

 

Not yet.

 

He gives Tommy a piece of paper.

 

“You will most likely be transferred to another convalescent home shortly. This one is quite full.”

 

Tommy nods, eager to leave. He has to find Gibson.

 

He’s not in their dormitory, not in the canteen. At last, Tommy finds him out on the lawn. A rain shower is upon them; Gibson has taken shelter under the eaves, shivering, just a little. He jumps when Tommy calls out his name. Tommy sees the slip of paper in his hand. He shows him his.

 

Gibson must’ve grasped the gravity of the situation, because he snatches the paper out of Tommy’s hand as Tommy gets closer. Tommy watches his jaw clench. Soon he leans why.

 

They’ve been assigned to different convalescent homes.

 

“No!” Tommy breathes out, sees his own concern reflected on Gibson’s face. The man holds Tommy’s gaze, obviously trying to make up his mind, accept the situation, not needlessly worry this young man staring back at him.

 

All Tommy knows is that he doesn’t want to accept the situation. They’ve made it together this far; he’s not ready to let go.

 

“They can’t do that,” Tommy mutters, though of course they can. It’s all out of Tommy’s hands, has been ever since he left home, even before that. Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.

 

Gibson bobs his head from side to side wryly, as if to say what’s on Tommy’s mind as well: _Of course they can._

 

Then, carefully, the man hands Tommy back his piece of paper; nods, smiles. An encouraging little smile.

 

Tommy’s insides churn.

 

“No!” he says. “I won’t let them take you.”

 

Gibson frowns. _I know what you mean, just can’t see what you’re going to do about it._

 

“What if we left?” Tommy suggests, lowering his voice though there’s no-one around. He so dearly wishes Gibson understood.

 

“You, me – leave,” he gestures.

 

Gibson’s eyes widen. He looks out at the open, the green countryside and the rolling hills.

 

“There’s a town not far from here,” Tommy says. “I saw it when the train went past.”

 

Gibson looks from Tommy back at the hills. He jolts when Tommy grabs his forearm.

 

“We could leave, right now.”

 

Gibson must’ve sensed Tommy’s urgency, because finally he nods, and follows Tommy inside.

 

They don’t have much to pack – just the spare underwear they were provided with upon their arrival. What’s hard is doing it all unobtrusively in a dorm full of men and nurses.

 

In a way, Tommy is glad that Alex is out – he wouldn’t like to explain this to Alex. Still, as he and Gibson make their way down to the front door and Tommy takes one last look at the convalescent home, he feels a strange prick of loss. He’s never going to see Alex again; and Alex will spend a long time wondering where Tommy and Gibson have got to; why Tommy couldn’t even leave a note. It’s not fair, not playing the game, but it has to be so.

 

A touch on his shoulder.

 

Gibson looks at him, soft eyes, with a compassionate tilt of his head. _It’s all right – we don’t have to do this_.

 

Tommy steels himself. _Yes we do._

 

“Let’s go,” he whispers to Gibson, who nods – and together they slip across the lush lawns, thin rain spattering their faces and catching on their eyelashes.

 

They make their way through deserted fields until they reach the wall bordering the estate. And as they climb over it, the deep green of the English countryside engulfs them.

 

They’re dripping with rain by the time they arrive in town, and the weight of their decision begins creep up on Tommy – where would they go? If it weren’t for the rain, they could stay outside, sleep under the stars, but they’re damp and cold, and Tommy has had enough of the elements – he swore himself he’d never lead Gibson into the damp and cold again. They haven’t got any money to get a room at an inn either.

 

Tommy tries to postpone the moment he has to turn around and let Gibson see that he has no clue what he’s doing.

 

They plod the streets amongst other tommies; every now and then Gibson will slip onto a back alley and turn and twist at a door handle, but all the doors – whether an inn, a pub, or a private residence – are locked good and tight.

 

It has stopped raining but the sun is going down behind the grey clouds. Tommy is cold and hungry and cross with himself – they’re survived a lot worse, but did he have to so rashly throw away the comforts and safety they’d been granted?

 

And then, the worst possible thing happens.

 

“Tommy?”

 

His heart stills in his chest as he takes in the face of the young man staring at him from the other side of the street.

 

And in that exact moment, Gibson re-emerges from another alley.

 

“Gibson? What’re you doing here?”

 

The two men stare at Alex, rooted to the spot. Tommy can sense Gibson tensing behind him.

 

Alex walks over, leaving his pack – a group of lads his age, smoking and drinking and wolf–whistling at the local girls.

 

“You’re not deserting, are you?”

 

“No! Of course not,” Tommy hurls at Alex. “Just…” He sneaks an apologetic glance at Gibson, and knows that Alex understands, hopes that he doesn’t press the issue or ask any more questions… because Tommy isn’t prepared to explain…

 

“Hey!” Alex calls at his pack. “You still got the keys to that room, Joseph?”

 

One of the men shouts back, “Yeah. Why?”

 

Alex glances at Tommy and Gibson. “Friends of mine need putting up. Haven’t got any money on them, poor buggers.”

 

Tommy flinches at the word. He waits, heart thumping in his chest. The man, Joseph, digs in his pockets.

 

“Here you go.”

 

He throws the key all the way across the street to Alex, who catches it deftly. Tommy reaches out his hand, but Alex holds the key for a moment; considering, wondering…

 

“Don’t suppose we’ll ever see each other again.”

 

He hands Tommy the key. Tommy’s fingers squeeze around it. His throat feels tight.

 

“Good luck you two,” Alex concludes, turning round.

 

“I hope we do,” Tommy says quickly.

 

Alex pauses. A brief smile lights up his face. A rare sight; Tommy had already forgotten what it looked like.

 

“Well, take care of yourselves then, eh?” Alex says, before joining his newfound mates.

 

“You too,” Tommy mumbles.

 

* * *

 

And so they spend their first night in a room above a pub in Surrey. There are two beds, only slightly further apart than at the convalescent home.

 

Tommy wakes up to hear Gibson groaning, tossing in his bed, and before Tommy’s eyes have acclimatised to the darkness, Gibson is clutching him desperately. At first Tommy lies stiff, startled, suffocated by the man’s weight, then his faculties catch up with him and he springs into action.

 

“Gibson, hey, Gibson, shh. It’s all right – we’re safe.”

 

The man’s eyes shine white in the dark as he pauses. Tommy sees the sweat dotting his forehead. His breathing is hot and frantic on Tommy’s face. Tommy meets his eyes head-on, knows it’s up to him not to let fear slip out through the cracks.

 

“Philippe.”

 

He hopes that the name the man has been hearing since childhood will be what grounds him.

 

The man’s clutch on Tommy relaxes – is transformed into an embrace, almost. Tommy wants to let him know he’s fine with it – this gentle closeness. He stays quite still as Gibson’s arm lingers on his chest, knows just how precarious the situation is and how treacherous his heartbeat is, and hopes Gibson doesn’t misinterpret it.

 

He sees shame in the Frenchman’s eyes – it should be him comforting Tommy, not the other way round. Age comforting youth, not the other way round.

 

Perhaps it makes more sense this way, Tommy thinks – perhaps it’s just that this man has had more years to accumulate terror and hurt…

 

For a moment they remain there, drawing laborious breaths, waiting for the anxiety to leave their bodies. At last, with a deep sigh, Gibson lets go, falls on his back on the mattress, an arm draped over his forehead. Tommy watches his bare chest heave under the blanket. The worst is behind them, for the next few hours.

 

Gibson must’ve infected him with fear, because Tommy jolts awake at some point of the night, just when a bullet penetrates his skull in the belly of the trawler. He finds himself gulping for breath, sweaty, clutching at something. The face hovering above his is one that he recognises. Calming words fall off the man’s lips. Tommy catches one of them.

 

“ _Cauchemar_.”

 

Tommy stares up at the man, and he stares back, knowing that he’s got through to Tommy. Slowly, Tommy’s body relaxes onto the mattress.

 

Gibson stays there, by his bed, hand on Tommy’s forehead, almost petting him but not quite, the other hand on Tommy’s chest. Tommy has forgotten how to be soft, but Gibson hasn’t.

 

The man murmurs something. Tommy gives a wistful laugh. “You know I can’t understand you.”

 

But he can; of course he can.

 

He turns to look at the face hovering above his. A handsome man. Yes, Gibson – Philippe – is handsome. A handsome man with a soft, warm voice, but a man’s voice nonetheless, more so than Tommy’s – not the first time Tommy has observed these facts, but now that they’re alone, alone and safe for the first time, he lets himself think about them.

 

Gibson has gone quiet again. Gently, he retracts his hand, gets to his feet.

 

“No.”

 

Tommy has grabbed his arm. Gibson frowns, startled.

 

“You…” Tommy begins, lost for words – even more so than he usually is with Gibson.

 

“Stay. I want you to stay.”

 

Gibson blinks at him; but after a short moment of hesitation, he sits down on Tommy’s bed, like a father would sit next to his child to read a bedtime story, and lowers his hand back in Tommy’s hair. Caresses it.

 

It occurs to Tommy that this is the first time they’re gentle with one another – and that this moment alone is reason enough for them to have fled from the convalescent home.

 

Tommy digests the moment, tastes the frisson of possibility. Tastes Gibson’s smell on his tongue – his natural scent, clean this time. His scent, his hand soft in Tommy’s hair – they fill Tommy with shameful but cautious pleasure.

 

He snaps out of his reverie when Gibson suddenly speaks – a long, soft string of sounds. Though Tommy doesn’t know what these words mean, he understand the kindness of them. A frown has appeared between Gibson’s brows. The man shakes his head to himself. Tommy gets the impression that he’s being pitied; and though he’d accept anything just to hear the man speak, he doesn’t want pity now. Not now, when everything’s all right for a change.

 

He takes Gibson by the wrist, guides the hand down to his cheek. Brushes up against it. The hand stiffens for a moment, the entire man freezes at first, but then he accepts this new kind of touch.

 

“Tommy.”

 

Tommy stops, shoots a look up at the man – his belly flutters with pleasure at the sound of his own name.

 

“Philippe.”

 

And Tommy realises – properly, for the first time – that there’s no-one there to tell them what they can and cannot do. If Tommy wants to take off his clothes and wrap himself around Gibson, he can do just that (as long as Gibson wants it too – and he does. God, he actually does.)

 

The Frenchman bends down, the hand on Tommy’s cheek cupping it. Tommy props himself up to meet him halfway. But they don’t touch, not yet. A slant of reason pricks that intoxicating haze.

 

Does he really want to do those things? Things that queers do. But...

 

Out of all the things you could do to a man’s body, was this really that bad?

 

Tommy’s body at least is ready. And he sees his own surprise mirrored on the Frenchman’s face – the surprise that he wants this, that’s he’s capable of wanting still. It’s not something Tommy has concerned himself over, at least not consciously, but he does now, fleetingly. And it’s no cause for concern right now, because Tommy feels his pulse increasing, his breath hitching, his skin aching to be touched.

 

He wants to do unspeakable things to this man; this man who seems to be stalling, hesitating, gazing down at Tommy as though he could break. Tommy holds his breath and holds Gibson’s gaze. Nods.

 

The Frenchman nods back.

 

Tommy closes his eyes as Gibson dips his head down towards him – but the first kiss is not on his lips, but his cheek; then his forehead, the corner of his mouth; his neck. And by that time Tommy is so dizzy he feels like he’s drowning again.

 

The man murmurs something, his breath catching, and though Tommy doesn’t understand, he nods.

 

“Yeah. Let’s be happy.”

 

And when Tommy looks down at the man draped across his body, he sees him smiling, gently. And Tommy lets him close, allows himself to be held, enveloped, kissed, and at some point Tommy hears himself laughing, for there has to be joke somewhere about French lessons, and it isn’t necessarily even that, but he is laughing, and upon hearing that, Gibson laughs with him.

 

The world’s gone topsy-turvy; before the war, he never would’ve thought, never would’ve considered… But worse things happen every day, sometimes right in front of Tommy’s eyes.

 

This?

 

This is a go at something good.

 

And with Gibson’s body on top of him, in his arms, the bodies of Dunkirk disappear.

 

* * *

 

Birdsong comes still as a shock to him. It wakes him up in the morning – a bird chirruping on the windowsill.

 

A beautiful thing living in this ugly world.

 

He starts when he turns his head and finds Gibson beside him, watching him. The man has awoken before Tommy – who knows how many hours ago.

 

Tommy takes in the man’s face, searching for signs of regret, repulsion, anything weak or ugly – but his face is a perfect calm mask. Tommy will never know it, but the same thought is on Gibson’s mind: _such a beautiful thing, thriving in this ugly world_.

 

The man extends his arm, snakes it under Tommy’s head, making a pillow for Tommy. Tommy lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

 

It’s the most peaceful morning he has had all year.

 

* * *

 

The pubkeeper takes pity on them and gives them a free breakfast – Tommy suspects that Alex may have asked him to. It’s beans and soup, and Tommy knows, consciously, that the soup should taste as bland and watery as it looks, but somehow it’s the most delicious breakfast he ever recalls having.

 

The Frenchman is sitting opposite him, wolfing down his food. Tommy watches him when he’s unaware, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

All wrong that Gibson should be here – in foggy old England, eating this watery food. He belongs in the sun, somewhere alive, on a vineyard somewhere in France; in scents of garlic and coffee. And yet Tommy is thankful he’s here. He makes Tommy feel light.

 

The weight only returns when he lets the truth slip in through the cracks – that this is temporary. That he has to make the most of their time together now, because now is all there is. Now or never. But at least Tommy’s been given this option. It could’ve also been never.

 

* * *

 

They’re in an old-fashioned town, surrounded by hills, which feels both foreign and unsettlingly familiar. The morning grey is dissipating, the clouds rolling over the town, out of the sun’s way. The air smells fresh in Tommy’s nose, of wet soil, but the winds are carrying with them something else too. The smell of smoke.

 

They head for the hills. Wide open spaces hold an unspoken allure for both of them. Halfway up, Tommy sees Gibson stopping in front of him and wheeling round on him, and he realises that he has come to a halt. There must be something in his expression, because Gibson asks him a question.

 

Tommy shoots a look at the man. “No, I was just thinking.”

 

Gibson fixes him with a stare.

 

“If this’ll last or not.”

 

He sweeps the fields and hills with his gaze. What wouldn’t he have given to be able to see a sight like this one more time? But now that he’s here, his adoration is marred with lingering nightmares – that it’s only a matter of time when the bluebirds flapping across the sky turn into screaming things of metal. Tommy’s ears still haven’t stopped ringing.

 

He flinches when he feels a touch on his hand. _Stop what you’re doing_ , the frown between Gibson’s brows seems to say. He gives Tommy a tug, setting out on a brisk pace up the hill. Tommy follows the Frenchman’s lead across the lush pasture, the shorn abandoned grass combed by the wind. It isn’t until they’re atop the wooded hill, looking down at the town, that Gibson lets go of Tommy.

 

They sit down on the hillside. Below them, soldiers have begun to flood the narrow winding streets. Green ants in their uniforms. Tommy wonders if Alex is amongst them.

 

If Alex has been designated to another convalescent home. Or sent back to active duty.

 

They’ve only got days – Tommy and Gibson. Then the war will take them again. Him, at least. He glances at the man sitting beside him and starts when he sees that the man is watching him, too.

 

“What’re you going to do?” Tommy asks him. “They’ll find you at some point.”

 

Gibson drops his gaze, pensive.

 

After a moment he speaks, a soft murmur that sets Tommy alight. He grins when the man grins, frowns when he frowns. Follows him into an unknown territory. Gibson is the one navigating; Tommy merely follows, enjoying the view.

 

“You know, in another time, I could’ve learned French. I could’ve taught you English,” Tommy says when Gibson has finished speaking. “We could actually understand each other.”

 

Gibson tips his head on the side, then reaches out his hand, brushes Tommy’s cheek. The hand lingers there, and Tommy is certain his heart is about to leap out of his chest. He leans into the palm, just a little; it’s all he can do to keep his eyes from closing with pleasure.

 

The silence is alive around them, alive with birdsong and humming wind, with the thud of his heart in his ears. The moment contains the world, with all its aches and comforts, and Tommy is sure he could hold that moment in the palm of his hand, the way Gibson does his face.

 

“I’ll never know you,” Tommy mutters, half his voice catching in his throat. “It’s not fair.”

 

The thumb stops caressing his cheek. Gibson lets his hand drop.

 

“I didn’t tell you to stop, mate,” Tommy says with a rueful smile, glad that Gibson doesn’t understand.

 

But the Frenchman stares at him with knowing eyes. He brings himself closer, so that their thighs are touching, Gibson’s body heat unbearable as it mixes with Tommy’s.

 

He takes Tommy by the chin – gently, still he remembers how to be gentle – and turns him to face him, forehead resting on forehead.

 

Tommy is frozen into immobility, his mind both chaotic and extraordinarily calm at the same time.

 

Gibson whispers something into the space between them; waits; the thumb grazing Tommy’s cheek again.

 

Another short burst of whispered words.

 

Tommy gives a nod, as if he understood; and closes the distance between their mouths, dizzy with his quickened pulse, the stirring of his blood. He throws himself into it, at the mercy of the man, a wreckage in the waves.

 

When they part, several unearthly moments later, Tommy is startled to find himself still here – in the serene English countryside, Gibson beside him.

 

The grass smells sweet as it mixes with the smell of Gibson in Tommy’s nose. A train is chugging in the distance, wailing as it draws at the station – perhaps expelling another mob of soldiers brought home across the Channel.

 

Gibson withdraws from Tommy, making room between them again; leaving a safe distance. For a moment, Tommy considers inching back close, but just then they hear a young voice laughing.

 

Tommy looks around. A young boy, running down the hillside, his mother scurrying after him, holding onto her hat, her skirt billowing in the wind.

 

Tommy’s gaze slips back to Gibson – who is watching the woman and the boy.

 

Tommy’s insides clench.

 

The mother and the son pass them, and Gibson’s eyes accidentally land on Tommy. For a second they hold one another’s gaze, and Tommy sees that Gibson is somewhere far off.

 

“You’ve got a family?” Tommy asks gingerly.

 

Comprehension dawns in Gibson’s eyes. He nods.

 

Tommy’s insides churn again. A vast chasm has torn itself between them.

 

But when Tommy feels in command of his voice again, he says, “Kids?”

 

The man looks at him, the words falling in the chasm between them.

 

“A son? Daughter?” Tommy continues, trying out words in the hopes that they might reach the man.

 

They don’t.

 

Tommy feels maddened and let down by the English language.

 

He extends his hand, makes a gesture of a waist-high creature, then nods after the woman and the boy.

 

And it works – Gibson’s face relaxes.

 

“Mmm,” he hums, and says the word in French, his whole face lighting up, and though Tommy fails to understand, he can’t help but smile along.

 

“A son?” he asks, pointing after the boy, who’s now long gone.

 

The man nods eagerly. He points in the same direction as Tommy and adds something in French.

 

“A son and a daughter?” Tommy risks, sticking out his index finger and middle finger.

 

“ _Oui_!” Gibson says, overjoyed, and they laugh out in unison.

 

The moment swells, glows, and the chasm between them is drawn shut. Tommy is incapable of feeling jealous and wistful. But when their laughter subsides and Gibson falls quiet again, his silence is filled with meaning. There is that faraway look in his dark eyes, and Tommy knows that it would be futile to call his name now – he wouldn’t hear it. Gibson’s thoughts are across the sea, on the other side of the Channel.

 

Tommy has to let him go.

 

Go back.

 

Go back to France, to war and to his family.

 

But not yet. He must keep Gibson for a while longer.

 

A part of him suddenly longs back for the moment before this one; when he was still ignorant, when he didn’t know about Gibson what he knows now.

 

* * *

 

They venture back into town when hunger overcomes them; down the winding streets, hedged by red-brick houses. They’re looking for a place to get free food.

 

Suddenly Tommy hears a word in French and whips around – but it’s not Gibson who’s spoken.

 

Three soldiers, speaking in rapid French, weave their way past Tommy and Gibson.

 

Tommy urgently turns to Gibson. The man is staring after his compatriots, his mouth open in silent surprise. Tommy is struck with a violent urge to grab onto Gibson’s arm, to stop him from going after the soldiers – and for a second it seems like Gibson might; he takes a tentative step and then another – but then his reason seems to catch up with him.

 

He turns to Tommy.

 

A flicker of shame passes across his face – he considered leaving Tommy, just to join his countrymen. The same shame must be mirrored on Tommy’s face – that he would ask Gibson to stay with him, mute and in hiding.

 

Gibson casts one final wistful look in the direction of the French soldiers. Then he sighs and looks back at Tommy.

 

_Well, that’s that, lad._

 

Somewhat encouraged by this, Tommy says, “Let’s go. Get some food.”

 

* * *

 

Gibson is quiet that night.

 

Tommy uses that word – quiet – for want of something better.

 

Even after Tommy has had a bath and gone to bed, Gibson keeps sitting on the edge of his bed, or in the chair by the window, staring out into the night. Tommy doesn’t know if Gibson thinks he’s asleep. Either way, Tommy’s presence seems to matter very little to the man.

 

It leaves Tommy hurt.

 

When Gibson has sat by the window and Tommy has feigned sleep long enough, he slips out of his bed.

 

The creak pulls Gibson out of his reverie. His widened eyes fix upon Tommy. A string of breathless words falls from the Frenchman’s lips.

 

Tommy hesitates, his feet cold against the wooden floorboards. Then he inches closer to the figure seated by the window. Gibson watches him, watches him keenly.

 

Tommy lays a hand on his shoulder.

 

A long exhalation leaves the Frenchman’s mouth. His shoulder relaxes under Tommy’s palm.

 

Slowly, Tommy weaves his arms around Gibson’s shoulders – broad shoulders, broader than Tommy’s – and lastly he rests his head on the crook of his neck. Gibson’s frame is soft, pliant, welcoming.

 

The night outside the window overlooking the High Street is permanently filled with noise – lone birds cawing; a dog barking somewhere; men’s voices jeering, drunken clamouring. Sounds of life. Tommy inhales Gibson’s scent. Careful, his lips find their way to the skin at the nape of the other man’s neck.

 

The man lets out a tiny noise of surprise. Tommy keeps going, because it wasn’t a ‘no’, and keeps kissing, kissing his way up the Frenchman’s neck, until the man is shivering in Tommy’s grip and his breathing is quick and loud.

 

Gingerly, Tommy turns Gibson’s head towards him. The Frenchman says something, his voice still breathless and thin. Tommy pauses.

 

“Only if you want to,” he answers, shy yet so sure.

 

Gibson’s gaze darts across Tommy’s face.

 

“I know I do.”

 

The moment stretches on, with Gibson immobile and mute. Tommy’s heart is twanging between his ribs, his pulse deafening in the night.

 

“Fine,” he mutters eventually, when Gibson has remained passive long enough.

 

Tommy turns to leave, to go back to bed, when a hand grabs his. Hesitant, the Frenchman rises from his chair. Tommy knows now’s the time to act. He gives Gibson’s hand a tug; pulls him to bed.

 

Sat on the edge of the bed, still wondering whether to take the plunge or not, Tommy holds onto Gibson’s night shirt while bringing his face close, to meet Gibson’s mouth. At first the older man doesn’t reciprocate – passive lips meeting Tommy’s eagerness.

 

“Philippe.”

 

That breath between them leaves the air electrified.

 

The Frenchman’s hand brushes Tommy’s cheek.

 

Tommy tries again; captures Gibson’s lip between his. And this time the man answers.

 

It’s the same intoxication as last night; just as good, as dizzying – no, perhaps even more so.

 

Tommy lays himself down on the bed, pulls Gibson on top of himself, his taller, heavier frame, and enjoys the weight, no matter how suffocating it gets.

 

And Gibson is as gentle as ever, and it’s the closest to living Tommy has felt ever since the war broke out. And if this is to be the last time Tommy feels alive, he will make it count. This moment of incomprehensible perfection.

 

* * *

 

Familiar sounds penetrate his shallow sleep. A door going and the floorboards squeaking. Then birdsong.

 

And when Tommy stirs, his limbs languid, and rubs the sleep out of his eyes, there’s a space next to him in the cramped bed.

 

Gibson is sitting by the window as though he never left; the window is ajar, letting in the chirping of the birds and the cool summer morning air.

 

Tommy rolls over to his side and the bed creaks, alerting the Frenchman.

 

For a brief moment there is a frown between his brows as he looks at Tommy, but then his expression softens.

 

He speaks, gentle words. Tommy lies there, taking them in, taking in the moment.

 

Gibson rouses himself and walks over, kneeling by the bed. Again he speaks, this time smiling, and Tommy gets the impression that he’s being patronised.

 

He stretches out his hand, brushes the curls off Gibson’s forehead. For a brief moment Gibson falls quiet. Then he picks up Tommy’s shirt from the back of the chair and hands it to him – followed by Tommy’s underwear.

 

Tommy feels himself blushing under Gibson’s amused stare. He takes the pieces of clothing, gets out of bed, and dresses. Gibson’s pensive gaze never once leaves Tommy’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

They’re sitting outside the pub in the sun, waiting for the pubkeeper to bring them food scraps when the foreign voices sound from down the High Street. Tommy’s ear doesn’t register the foreign lilt right away, but Gibson’s does. He perks up, looking for the source of the sound.

 

Three soldiers come walking down the High Street, and Gibson springs to his feet, and again Tommy sees the same hesitation. He turns to Tommy, seeking approval, as if he needed it from a young lad like Tommy – but he gives it to Gibson; gives Gibson an encouraging nod. Gibson’s face softens. He races after the three Frenchmen.

 

Tommy watches the scene unfolding from afar – the looks of surprise, suspicion and bewilderment when a man comes up to them, dressed like an Englishman but speaking their language. But then their faces split into grins and laughter, and the men embrace Gibson, air-kiss him, cheeks brushing, patting him hard on the back – and suddenly, Tommy thinks, Gibson is no longer his.

 

For a minute or two Gibson is completely engrossed in the company of his countrymen, his native language flowing freely, as though an exhalation he’d held for over a week, and Tommy watches him with a sort of wistful warmth around his heart. It is then that Gibson turns around, and Tommy’s belly flips. The smile etched on Gibson’s face subsides, though the ghost of it remains in his eyes as he crosses the street back to Tommy.

 

To Tommy’s surprise, Gibson seizes him by the arm and says something in French, his entire manner changed, and beckons to Tommy to follow.

 

Tommy hesitates, sneaking a glance at the French soldiers who are watching him with equal doubt.

 

“Come,” Gibson says in English, startling Tommy, and it’s that brief moment of disorientation at hearing Gibson speak English that the man takes advantage of and drags him to the French soldiers.

 

Tommy stands there sheepishly while he’s being introduced, and whatever it is that Gibson says to his countrymen, it makes their expressions soften.

 

“...Tommy.”

 

He nods at the men when Gibson pronounces his name, the sound of it reminding Tommy of those times when Gibson has breathed it out in the dead of the night, while beneath or inside of Tommy.

 

One of the Frenchmen extends his hand, offers it to Tommy.

 

“How do you do?” he asks in a thick accent, but in English nonetheless.

 

Tommy takes his hand. “How do you do?” he mutters back, slightly encouraged.

 

“Your friend here,” the French soldier begins, pointing at Gibson, “He tells us that you helped him escape _Dunkerque_.”

 

Gibson is beaming at Tommy, who flushes hot with embarrassment and pleasure.

 

“Oh no, I didn’t…”

 

Gibson interjects something, patting Tommy’s shoulder. Although the touch is relatively light, the touch lingers on his skin long after it’s over. The four Frenchmen go on conversing in their language, and Tommy contends himself to observing.

 

One of the men evidently asks Gibson something; the question has Gibson pausing, his brow knitting together, a sombre look appearing in his brown eyes. He answers, and the other man repeats the words. There seems to be some confusion among the men. Gibson is watchful, contemplative. When one of the soldiers speaks next, Gibson’s stern gaze flits quickly to Tommy, and Tommy can tell this is something important.

 

“What is he saying?” Tommy demands from the soldier, the only person capable of mediating between them.

 

“Our ship, it leaves to France tomorrow,” says the man.

 

Tommy doesn’t hear the rest; he’s in free fall, the ground crumbling fast beneath his feet. His eyes meet Gibson’s in passing – apologetic. Tommy can’t bear to look.

 

He knows what this means. He knows Gibson will have to go too.

 

His feet carry him away from the four Frenchmen, down the street. The emotion comes rushing over him, like a stream from a broken dam…

 

He covers his face with his hands, can’t keep his shoulders from bobbing. Looking wildly around, he seeks for a hideout, and slips into the narrow alleyway between His Majesty’s mails and a stationary shop. There, in the little privacy he has, he allows himself to fall to his knees, allows his puny body to be wrecked with sobs.

 

The vast weight of everything has come crushing down on him. Soon he’ll be out there in combat again, trying to kill in order not to be killed himself, and his last link to humanity since he left home will be forever lost for him. They will both die without knowing which one of them went first. Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.

 

A shadow comes in front of the sunlight slipping into the alley. Tommy feels it, a cold shiver. Fighting for composure, he wills himself to quieten down, wipes at his cheeks. He’s too ashamed to look Gibson in the face; ashamed of caring.

 

The man takes a step closer.

 

“Tommy?”

 

“I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

 

He says this because he knows Gibson doesn’t understand; knows that Gibson can see the true state of affairs anyway, through the wasted noise of Tommy’s lies.

 

Tommy feels a touch on his arm, helping him to his feet. He struggles against the aid, but Gibson winds his arms around Tommy’s smaller frame, irrevocably and irresistibly. He’s determined to show Tommy that this is all right.

 

Reluctantly Tommy presses his cheek against Gibson’s chest, tucks his head under the man’s chin, surrenders his full weight to Gibson’s arms, while the Frenchman murmurs soothing word against the top of Tommy’s head, strokes Tommy’s unruly hair with his fingertips.

 

The closeness makes Tommy equal parts happy and gloomy and afraid, his heart racing and stomach turning, just like they did back there – across the Channel.

 

To where Gibson would soon return.

 

Gibson withdraws from the embrace, just a little, and tucks a hand into his pocket. There’s a clink of metal when he produces something for Tommy to see.

 

A dog tag.

 

But when Gibson shows it to him, Tommy sees that it doesn’t say ‘Gibson’.

 

“Guill-et?” Tommy enunciates, taking the tag for closer inspection. The Frenchman gives a gentle laugh.

 

“ _Guillet_.”

 

“Huh? Oh!” Tommy can tell he was being corrected. Running his thumb over the grooves in the metal, he tries to memorise the proper pronunciation, the sound of Gibson’s birth name.

 

And then, Tommy’s heart gives a huge bound as the man does what Tommy was secretly hoping for – with reassuring words accompanying the action, Gibson closes Tommy’s hand around the piece of metal.

 

_Keep it. And remember me._

 

* * *

 

It’s a mockingly beautiful summer day. They make their way through the village to the train station, finishing the pack of Gauloises the five of them started yesterday, smoking and lazing in the sun.

 

At the station they join the swarm of French soldiers moving through the barriers. There are women lined up along the gates, handing out postcards. The Frenchmen, Gibson included, take one apiece, while Tommy declines with a shake of his head.

 

The platform is teeming with men in green uniforms, walking amongst the thick white billow of smoke from the train. Everywhere there are bouts of French spoken. Tommy’s slight frame catches bumps as he makes his way to the platforms, a few paces behind the French soldiers – and Gibson. Being jostled awakens something in him, makes his palms sweat and chest feel tight, but he firmly keeps his gaze on the dark curly back of Gibson’s head, and no terrors can reach him just then. Two birds zoom by just over Tommy’s head, so close that he can feel the rush of air through his hair, and he ducks reflexively. Harmless creatures, resting in the station roofing.

 

They come to a halt by the train – and Tommy knows it’s only a matter of minutes now.

 

While the four Frenchmen peruse their tickets and the postcards they were just given, Tommy tries to distract himself by observing the scene on the platform. Already he feels a prickling in his nose, behind his eyes. That shameful, uncontrollable sensation, a warning sign. It’s as if the tightness in his chest is forcing the tears out.

 

“‘Ey!” says the English-speaking Frenchman. He tosses Tommy a light-blue pack of cigarettes with a military helmet logo. “This is for you, Tommy.” Then he comes closer, and his tone turns confidential.

 

“We will take care of your friend,” he says, lightly slapping Tommy on the back.

 

Tommy nods.

 

Then it’s Gibson’s turn to come to him. He takes Tommy’s hand, and suddenly Tommy feels like everybody’s staring at him as he fights the urge to howl, to burst into bitter sobs.

 

Gibson speaks, voice steady, warm – a last loving message. _Courage_ , that much Tommy understands.

 

“I hope we meet again,” Tommy answers, each word so true and such an effort.

 

Tommy can’t do it, because he’s English, but fortunately Gibson can – he puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, then bends his head and touches Tommy’s cheeks with his. One last time, in those seconds that seem to go on forever and just long enough, Tommy inhales and fills his lungs with Gibson’s scent. He feels light-headed when Gibson pulls away – as though the Frenchman was already fast becoming a mere dream, or a memory; a figment of Tommy’s imagination.

 

But for a few minutes more, Gibson is still real, and he smiles at Tommy.

 

The station master blows the whistle. Time to go.

 

Tommy sees Gibson off with his gaze, which Gibson holds until it’s finally his turn to climb aboard.

 

And just like that, he’s gone – swallowed in the sea of French soldiers. Tommy finds himself wishing the train would leave right away.

 

And finally it does, eases its way out of the station with another whistle and a billow of smoke. People on the platform are waving. Tommy hesitates at first, but then he waves too.

 

He’s one of the last to leave the platform. As he does, he walks past the women handing out postcards. He asks for one.

 

He never sends it out, and loses it before the war is over. But it doesn’t matter. Because one day, his mum receives a letter written in French, of which neither she nor Tommy understand a thing, but which still means the world.

  



End file.
